The fan club

Odds are, the softball season ended tonight. Oh, there are a couple of games that could be made up, but given that those same contests have been rained out twice already, and given the mood as the girls gathered around the pool for pizza, it seems safe to say the season has come to a close whether they play 8 more innings or not. Thanks to the school calendar, the summer's again winding down just as it's getting started, and the girls are moving on to other things. Our little league's not set up for playoffs or any kind of champion, and so, by design, it just kind of ends. There are team parties and parent-purchased trophies, because, you know, everybody must win--though at least we did really win this year--but officially, according to the city-supplied ribbons, we're all "participants." I'm trying not to roll my eyes at the whole set-up when, once again, Kirsten saves the day.

Tonight, in her ill-advised bikini and flip flops, she'd be indistinguishable from half the team, except that she accepts the bobble-headed trophy that the coach's daughter picked out with the same enthusiasm that she did everything else this season. I just love this girl, and I don't even know her last name.


When the party ends and the kids are finally extracted from the pool with the help of a little kid-brother puke, I resist the urge to catch up with Kirsten's dad and tell him, one more time, how much I've enjoyed watching his daughter this season. I'm afraid my enthusiasm might be getting a little weird. But honestly, I've never seen anything like it: his girl was just born to catch, and seeing her behind the plate has made my softball-watching summer.

It's not just the Molina-worthy pick-off move with which she threatened every runner, and, more than once, snagged 2/3 of an inning's outs. Or the way she flipped off her mask and hustled after every ball, no matter how inconsequential. Or the way she tried to shift the infield over when a lefty came up to bat, as if our infield would notice. It was all those things and more, but not because they made our team better. As erratic as these new fast-pitch hurlers could be, it was truly no small feat to catch nearly everything, but her skill was only part of what drew in me and everybody else who watched every game from the center bleachers.

She just loves to play, and so we just loved to watch her. There's no drama or attitude in her, just everything you'd want in a ballplayer. She's normally so consistent and even-keeled, a 10 year-old professional, that when her head hangs a bit because one of our kids misses one of her throws, we can't help but yell encouragement. And that night she broke out of a little slump with a stand-up double, we were as happy and excited for her as the little fist pump she couldn't hold in showed she was for herself. No wonder her parents sit way down the line, away from our chatter. Honestly, though, I think Kirsten's as oblivious to us as she is to everything else when she's on the field. She's just there to play her game, as hard as she can, as much as she can, until she steps off the field and becomes a regular girl again, and for that, we love her. Even if we don't know her last name.